A Very Much Maligned Label
Of course I don't really mean it -- but it had to be said.
Oh, some scoff at Jesse Crawford and his Wurlitzer banal,
While to Henry Burr some others might prefer a root canal,
And yet further members of that great shellacophile persuasion
Might well deem a Frank Ferera find a less than grand occasion.
But there's nothing midst a pile of discs that's quite so sure to numb ya
As the sight of yet another gosh-darned red-label Columbia!
Yes, they breed amidst the batwings, and I've often heard it said
That they give new meaning to the phrase, one's "better dead than red."
Yes, they fill the bulk of every box -- go on for yards and yards --
And survive when nobler, better discs have been reduced to shards!
"Hey, what's that?" you say, "Black Patti? Or my very first Berliner?
Some fine disc of which I'll boast and brag and look at during dinner?
O alas, the label's red -- the microphone, the CBS!
O egad! I'd rather buy a Crapophone than this, I guess!"
Now here's a toast to "rings" and to the silver-blacks of old,
The note-the-notes, the vivatonal and the blue-and-gold,
But -- as for myself! -- I'll not be plunking down a penny
For a crate of red Columbias, 'cause there's just too blasted many!